is like a misbehaving poodle
that gets into a brawl
with a leftover cheese sandwich
fighting so passionately
and so badly
that a poet is inspired
to write an epic
in which the poodle appears
as a mighty warrior
and the cheese sandwich is a dragon
and the poem is read for six hundred years
and taught to bored literature students
with improbably small vocabularies


There is an ocarina
behind my couch cushions
a ceramic ocarina
on a string
I forgot I owned it
but there it is

Now it is sitting on top of my couch
which I think is where it started
and doubtless it will soon
slip behind the cushions again

This is a metaphor
for life


is like a box of chocolates
stolen by a mysterious man
riding on a pony
descended from the emperor
of an equestrian planet
discovered in 1849
by scientists secretly launched into space
as park of a medieval programme
initiated by the King of Spain
whose wife
was a foundling
with magical powers
resulting from her mother’s otherworldly ancestry
and tendency to find enchanted swords
which in turn
had resulted from an accident with a time machine
created in 2286
in Kenya
by a think tank
making one last desperate attempt
to save the human race from itself
because of the worldwide disaster
that could be traced back to the day
a couple from Hong Kong
opened a box of chocolates
and chose the wrong one

Ode to a Dead Raccoon Left to Rot on the Sidewalk at the Corner of Church and Yonge for Fourteen Hours at the Height of Summer

You went too soon
little bandit of nighttime splendour
with your tiny clever paws
and your fundamental understanding
of your place in the vastness of the universe

When you cast off your mortal shell
and left it at Church and Yonge
so you could fly free as a philosophical disembodied space entity
or whatever
the people of Toronto paid tribute
with flowers and candles
and even a card

You were worth it
small swift arbiter of universal grief and madness
and though we are kind of sorry we mocked you
we also believe it was not mockery
but a celebration of your rich and giddy life
plus maybe a bit of sarcasm
directed at the city workers who left you to rot on the sidewalk for fourteen hours

Sleep well
minuscule champion of garbage-can-lid negotiation
and let the words of the city worker who finally picked you up
stand forever as your epitaph:
“Seriously, guys, it’s a dead raccoon.”

wise city worker
and so the world
turns on
into morning



Original story


is like a bucket of frog sperm
accidentally stolen
from the refrigerator of an over-enthusiastic scientist
and dumped randomly down a storm drain
in the middle of April

It is also
like a party thrown by a lost puppy
who has happened upon a mansion
abandoned by its owners
who belong to the mob
and are fleeing for their lives
because somebody ratted somebody else out to the cops
and all the superheroes are on vacation

It is not at all
like a broomstick
with a mouse balanced on it
and a little basket containing a single raspberry
balanced on the mouse

But it could be said to be somewhat
like a discarded coffee cup
glazed with rain
beside the white